Darkness was fast advancing.

A rising wind swept through the dead bracken, whirled round the great grit boulders, and sent a shiver through Louie's thin body.
'It's cowd,' she said pettishly; 'I'm gooin back.' 'Did yo spose it wor gooin to be warm, yo little silly?
That's why I browt t' rugs, of course.

Gells never think o' nothin.

It's parishin cowd here, neets--fit to tie yo up in knots wi th' rheumatics, like Jim Spedding, if yo doan't mind yorsel.

It wor only laying out a neet on Frimley Moor--poachin, I guess--'at twisted Jim that way.' Louie's countenance fell.